


Bent out of shape

by Lady_Talla_Doe



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, references to Canon typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Talla_Doe/pseuds/Lady_Talla_Doe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An altercation with Gabriel has Michael bent all out of shape. What Alex can't figure out is what was different about THIS encounter with the rival archangel, or why they're suddenly having a moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bent out of shape

**Author's Note:**

> I'm such an asshole. Ahahaha. Read those tags my friends.  
> For ohyestomwisdom on tumblr

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“Michael, please, just let me _help_!” Alex reached out to snatch the bandages from the archangel’s hands but Michael jerked back once more, all but growling at him. Frustrated, Lannon stopped his attentions and turning his back on the bleeding angel.

“Fine! You don’t want help? Fine! Just- just _bleed_ , all over the floor! Like I care!” Except for his voice cracking part way through, and the way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, Alex almost pulled off uncaring. Purple bruises were rising slowly under his uniform from where the blunt edge of Michael’s wing had caught him as the archangel had knocked him aside, taking the blow meant for Alex on his other wing.

But the blade had been his brother’s – had been _Gabriel’s_ , and it bit in deep into those oil-spill black feathers, painting them with brilliant red even as the blood had ran out of Gabriel and Alex’s faces.

Never in his life would he had thought he’d agree with the murderer on anything, but in that moment they’d both flung out arms, screamed Michael’s name like he’d taken a killing blow. There had been no fight after that, both too shaken, too frightened of the idea that there might be a world where Michael did not exist, to keep at it. Gabriel had screamed after them, even as Michael had throw his arms around Alex and hauled him _up, up, up_ into the dusky sky.

And now they were in Vega, in the Stratosphere, and Michael wouldn’t let him touch him – wouldn’t let him _help!_

It should anger him. But Alex was shaken, scared – images of his father, of Jeep falling back, red pooling down his chest, dripping to the floor flashed behind his eyes every time he closed them. He could hear the shuffle of Michael behind him, likely tending his wounds- the soft flap of fabric in the breeze, heavier sounds of his boots hitting the ground.

“I should leave you, let you tend to yourself.” He stood slowly, stepping away from the bed – it was the only place to sit in the large room, and he’d become accustomed to making himself comfortable in Michael’s space.

It felt invasive now.

Alex turned, and floundered. Stopped, and stared at the angel.

Massive black wings stretched the width of the room, feathers brushing the floor. Wings that seems small, almost diminutive for his tall frame were suddenly towering, overwhelming the small space. He watched they way the seemed to flex under his gaze, like he had physically touched them, and Alex suppressed a shiver, a want. Instead he curled his hands at his sides, dropping his gaze to the side and to the left. It was easier then looking at his bare chest in the low light, at the play of muscle under his skin and wondering in that half minded fashion what it felt like- what those wings felt like, if the slick feathers were cool and soft – or hard as flint, with a knife’s edge.

Alex swallowed.

“O-okay, I’ll just go now. Goodnight, Michael,” Alex got his feet turned in the right direction, despite the swamp of emotions he was mired in, and with a flush crawling down his neck, started slowly towards the door.

Feathers whispered. Michael’s hand rested on his arm, stilling him.

“Wait. Alex, I...”

He could feel the heat of the archangel against the back of him, feel his breath in a soft tide against his hair. The leading edge of one wing brushed against the side of his leg, feathers soft even through his pants, and Alex didn’t have that sort of resistance; He twitched his fingers, just brushing those feathers- cool silk beneath his fingertips, softer then he had imagined. Stronger.

Behind him, Michael’s breath caught, and Alex couldn’t breathe, didn’t dare move.

The wing pressed firmer into his hand.

Alex dared to breath, curling his fingers, carding them carefully through the inky mess, not stopping when his fingers encountered tacky blood. Michael’s breath left him in a rush, and they seemed frozen, hovering close, locked in a moment so intimate there was no protocol, no words- yet fixed inches apart, each so careful not to close that distance. Both of Michael’s wings were folded around Alex, his fingers curled around his wrist, no way to hide the way his heart beat hard enough to hurt his bruises.

But neither moved.

They stood, they breathed, maintained carefully restrained contact.

Blood dripped slowly down Michael’s feather’s, sliding over Alex’s fingers, and he tightened his grasp.

They both inhaled.

 


End file.
